


Supernova

by junkienicky



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Control Issues, Dom/sub Undertones, F/F, Light Angst, Missing Scene, Not A Fix-It, Power Dynamics, Resolved Sexual Tension, Rewrite, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2019-12-14
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:47:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21738583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/junkienicky/pseuds/junkienicky
Summary: With a secret eating away at her, Franky feels the need to retain her control in some form...Alternate take on 3x07 'The Long Game' scene.
Relationships: Franky Doyle & Bridget Westfall, Franky Doyle/Bridget Westfall
Comments: 6
Kudos: 83





	Supernova

“What’s Kim Chang’s problem?” Bridget sets a stoic tone. She puts her foot in first because she must and Franky notices; dark brows raising with anticipation that’s yet to be written. Despite that, there’s a tantalising glimmer that meets the green in her eyes and Bridget knows it’s there without looking. It fills the gap between their bodies like it does all their sessions and it waits patiently. A panther in the dark ready to pounce.

Franky sits in the opposite chair, playing it cool like a dormant animal. A situated setting that is entirely hers to control. A torpid shrug rolls from her shoulders and a pout meets her pale lips. “She must be jealous.”

With a very subtle smile, Bridget frowns. “What of?” She sits with her shoulders angular and her legs crossed tightly while Franky’s arms drape over the fabric of the lime chair. Her smile lingers keenly as she diverts the question.

“Well, you tell me.”

A petite smile tugs at Bridget’s mouth yet she can’t help but tense up slightly. “This is your session, Franky. You asked for it,” she points out, transfixed by a greedy gaze and a wide smile that creases the woman’s cheeks. Franky fidgets once more. She clasps her hands and squeezes, producing a small crack and the soles of her Converse tap rhythmically on the carpet.

The psychologist tilts her head and releases this slow, lethargic sigh from her mouth. There is a quantity of insolence coming from Franky that slightly bothers Bridget, though she doesn’t let on. “I was hoping we’d have something to talk about.”

“What do ya wanna hear?” Franky says, continuing to bore into her with a brazen stare. Bridget’s eyes, however, drop to the carpet in a brisk effort to revert the subject back onto its course before Franky manages to grip the reigns and venture off.

“What was that shit with Liz the other day?”

The inmate’s jaw stiffens, and she leers off into the distance; every essence of her cockiness seemingly dissipating from her very being. She rolls her shoulders back as a heavy sigh spurts from her nostrils and into the air. Then she bites her lip with an idea.

“Alright, ya wanna ask questions then let’s make it fair. I get to ask you a question for everyone I answer.” She smiles as broad as a cat with the cream while Bridget looks momentarily disapproving about the suggestion. Except the look practically fades as soon as it comes and her face twitches with interest. After all, she needs answers to work with. A truth for a truth doesn’t seem unfair.

Bridget sets her arms by her sides and forces herself to relax. “Okay,” she complies, and a sudden rush of thrill revitalises Franky back into life.

Oily words slip off Franky’s tongue as she lounges back in her chair. “Just a misunderstanding,” the inmate remarks to Bridget’s previous query. It doesn’t take a genius to know that the response is a copout. Throttling somebody against a wall and threatening to kill them is not usually the result of a mere misunderstanding. Even in such a pressure cooker of an environment.

“What was the misunderstanding over?”

“Ah-ah,” Franky cuts in with shrewd energy. Her eyelids squint at Bridget like she’s looking at her through a haze. “It’s my turn.”

The psychologist swallows thickly. _Damn it._

Franky sits upright in the chair while she musters up a question. Bridget primes herself carefully.

“You’re acting all professional when really, ya just wanna get off.” Her tongue dabs the corner of her lips before she smirks idly. Bridget, on the other hand, lets out an exhausted breath.

“I’m here to help you, Franky. Nothing in between.”

The inmate looks a little bristled by the statement, though, at the same time, it barely grazes her because the grin on her face only falters for a second.

“You won’t open up and talk about your problems because you don’t trust me.”

“Not true,” Franky answers instantly, twiddling her thumbs. “You’re pissed at me,” she says. It sounds like an accusation and the psychologist is taken back by it. Her shoulders slouch as she frowns.

“What makes you say that?”

“Cause you’re actin’ all uppity,” came Franky’s terse reply.

Bridget tames her frustrations inward because any response to that may be hazardous. Franky’s not entirely wrong, but she isn’t right either. It’s just one of those days where there’s no desire to play and Franky’s teasing is an equal measure of palpable humour and something Bridget doesn’t fully allow herself to touch on. But it’s all otiose in regard to her parole report, anyway, and surely Franky is aware of this. She isn’t stupid regardless of what her intention is. 

“I need to recommend you for parole, Franky. I can’t do that if you don’t talk about anything relevant,” Bridget says. The inmate looks rather stung by the waspish reply and she rolls her neck back in this petulant way. It’s Bridget’s turn.

“Why won’t you talk about your troubles?”

“Cause nothing’s troublin’ me at the mo, Gidget.” Franky gets up on her feet and saunters around the room wearing an imperious smirk. “I gotta question for ya. What colour’s that lacy bra you’re wearing?”

Bridget’s muscles clench and her throat turns dry. Surely her top wasn’t…See-through? She very nearly glances down just to make sure until she remembers that she’s wearing her navy, zip-up jacket today. _Fuck. Idiot._ She’s thankful Franky’s pacing her way about the room in that casual manner that she does so that Bridget can keep her pool blue eyes anywhere but on her.

“I’m not wearing a…”

“Bet it’s black, right? I can imagine it.”

The psychologist swallows and with a gentle shake of her head, she presses on. “You’ve got anger issues, Franky. You need to deal with them, we need to work out a way you can overcome that.”

The inmate almost sneers. Instead, she flops back down on the chair, leaning forward with her elbows resting on her knees. “Maybe. But you need to relax, you’re not the one living in here, Gidge.”

“You’ve got baggage. We all do, but you need to start identifying the things that make you click and breakthrough them because – ”

Franky moans audibly, rolling her eyes to the back of her skull. “Spare me the fuckin’ clichés, Gidge!”

“Well, spare me the fucking run around!” Bridget snaps. “Okay, I’m sick of it, you waste these sessions.” The two fall into silence and the air between them is momentarily wounded with thick tension. Franky looks at her with hard, frosty eyes.

“Kay, I got another question for ya,” the inmate says before a pause. “Do I scare you?”

It’s couched softly and the forlorn look on the woman’s face is enough to create an aching swell in Bridget’s chest. There isn’t a joke to it. She’s serious with a deadpan demeanour and a flicker of wariness that transcends the bold look in her eyes. A taste emerges in Bridget’s mouth that’s sour. She looks at Franky, though doesn’t quite meet her eyes, all while Franky studies Bridget with vigilance. Scare? No. Intimidate? Maybe? Truthfully, Bridget didn’t really know.

“No. No, you don’t.”

Franky regards the psychologist with caution for a sign of a lie. When she’s confident, her face melts into a smile and the tightness around Bridget’s ribs slacken. “You know ya pretty sexy when you’re annoyed, Gidge.”

Bridget feels tingling from her ear, down her jaw and across to the other one. Her cheeks flush with a shade of pink. “We’re not here to talk about me,” she reminds her then gets up on her feet. She takes a casual scroll to her desk and ambles her way around it to locate a pen.

In a sudden movement, Franky was stood behind her; hands slowly moving around the smaller woman’s form to squeeze her waist. “Franky, we can’t do this,” Bridget rasps. The tickling of Franky’s hot breath against her ear leaves a shiver along her spine.

“Can’t we? Cause I see a free room and time on the clock. I see you lookin’ at me all the time. Thinking about this. My hands on you. Guess what? So do I,” the inmate husks into Bridget’s neck. She feels Bridget squirm at the touch and retracts her hands away quickly, stepping back to create a space between them. The psychologist turns to look at her; dazed and disoriented. She feels her heart hammer dangerously under her ribs when a sudden rush of arousal begins to awash her.

Franky observes the woman with unsurety. She purses her lip and unknowingly fiddles with the teal cuffs sitting at her wrists. _Shit. Mistake._ The inmate’s cheeks flush with deploration at herself. “Uh…No, you’re right. Sorry.”

A good, _long_ five seconds hang between them and Franky half expects to be dragged out by an officer and into the slot until she’s yanked forward by two warms hands into a searing kiss.

Franky takes a moment to adjust – her hands fumbling to meet with the fabric around Bridget’s hips – and when she manages to steady herself from the momentum, she’s pushing the psychologist back onto the desk regaining control. It wobbles from the impetus of the movement and breathily, Bridget pulls back, darting her eyes over to the blinds and lock on the door. Closed and locked. Thank fuck for that. “Oh, god,” she groans when rough, yet soft hands skim around her rear as Franky grounds against her.

Bridget’s hands clasp either side of Franky’s face as she kisses her hard and propels the woman closer. She’s stunned by her own sudden drive of desire, probably as much, if not more than Franky.

“Tell me what you want,” a flustered Franky instructs. She latches onto Bridget’s throat, peppering a trail of fiery kisses along the skin. Bridget can only moan; white-knuckled fists clutching onto the periphery of the desk. When Franky draws back, looking deeply into her like a feral tiger, the psych lets out an urgent hiss.

“I…”

Franky cuts her off with another kiss as a wave of pleasure thrums through each of their bodies. Her calloused hands trail up Bridget’s jacket to rip the zipper down and pull the fabric apart. She yanks aside another layer of clothing underneath and halts when she’s met with…A black, lacy bra. Franky’s laughter rings throughout the room and Bridget cannot possibly suppress the smile forming on her lips. The psychologist pulls the woman closer so that their foreheads are touching. “Just shut up and fuck me,” Bridget begs, softly kissing her.

Franky moans at the request and complies with her expert fingers back in motion. In a fluid movement, she’s already in the waistband of Bridget’s pants, brushing the tips of her fingers against the milky smooth skin of her thighs. The blonde fails to stifle a blissful sigh and Franky’s at her ear, shushing and sucking on the lobe.

“I need…”

“Say it.”

“Inside,” Bridget whimpers. Franky digs into the entrance of the woman’s underwear and almost shudders with the slick heat she’s met with. It’s everything she imagined. No, it’s more than that, and she drinks in the feeling overcoming her, from the touch of Bridget to her soft little pants against the teal of Franky’s shoulder. If she died like this, there wouldn’t be a single complaint to be made because she has Bridget, here like this, shuddering against her while they fit together like an electric circuit. Unable to hold back, Franky kisses her; soft and slow. Delicate and deliberate. She wants to explore every inch of Bridget’s body – to study her like a map in the same way that old sailors marked down star constellations.

Franky slides in and Bridget gasps at the contact. This is it now. She’s too far gone. There’s no going back now with Franky in her – thumb on the trigger.

“Like that?” The inmate purrs.

“Yeah, it’s good,” Bridget says, hands frantically tugging onto the woman with all her strength as they rocked together with urgency. Franky shivers at the praise as muscles tense around her fingers. She gazes at the blonde like she’s waiting to subdue her quarry and Bridget meets her eyes, finding them both bright and soft all at once. “Oh, fuck!” With a shake, she squeezes her eyes closed and succumbs to a blissful daze with staggering spasms rippling throughout her legs. She slips into a surrender against Franky and moans her name quietly through her climax. Her body sags as the sensation washes over her and she falls heavily into a supernova in Franky’s fortifying arms.

Bridget’s eyes peel open and she squints, adjusting to the light. There are white ceiling panels above her and for a hot second, she forgets where she is. That is until she feels the sweep of a thumb brush against her flushed cheek. Then she finally notices Franky above her; soft eyes and a smile on her lips.

“Hey. Finally joined us back on Earth?”

“Shit, what time is it?” Bridget flusters, dizzily bringing herself up from Franky’s lap. She looks around to find herself low in the spacious room of her office.

“Don’t worry, we’ve still got ten minutes,” Franky says, sitting upright with her elbows now up on her knees and her teal jacket neatly folded beside her. She blinks at Bridget with contentment as the woman soothes down her clothes. “You okay?”

Bridget holds her breath, running a hand through her rumpled hair before she puffs out her cheeks. “Uh, I think so…” comes her uneasy response. Franky’s mouth twitches with pessimism. Her eyes drop to the square of carpet beside her. “Franky, that was – ”

“I know, I know, it can’t happen again. Fuck.” The inmate frowns and looks away into the distance.

“I was going to say something else, actually.”

Franky’s neck twists back to Bridget. “I reckon you needed that, hey.”

The blonde admits to that by nodding.

"I do trust ya, you know. I just got shit I need to deal with first," Franky mumbles after a moment of silence. She's unable to bring herself to eye Bridget but senses the woman nodding. She forces herself to subside her woe and pulls though with a smirk. “Was it good?” She awaits her performance review.

Chuckling, Bridget sets herself back down and moves closer to the woman. “It was nice,” she smiles.

Franky rolls her eyes. “Nice is another word for boring.”

“Did I look bored?”

Franky’s grin turns smug. “Suppose not.”

“You know,” Bridget starts, setting her hands into her lap. “You don’t always have to feel like you need to be in control all the time.”

The woman shrugs gloomily, holding onto her killer secret. It destroys her inside. Eats away at her in the night when she’s desperate to sleep. She’s a puppet of this grave misfortune and at mercy to its strings in controlling command.

She sighs. She’ll tell Bridget eventually. She’ll have to.


End file.
